


To be alone together

by cameliae



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Character Turned Into a Ghost, Depressed Jaskier | Dandelion, Depression, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Protective Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Suicidal Thoughts, i don't kill anyone i want good endings okay, i don't put the major character death warning because he's not dead, jaskier is a bit out of character due to reasons, no beta we die like jaskier doesn't
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-08
Updated: 2020-11-08
Packaged: 2021-03-09 03:15:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,087
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27457828
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cameliae/pseuds/cameliae
Summary: He doesn't ignore the bags, though. So, he sheathes his sword, crouches near the dead bodies, and rummages in their satchels, hoping to find something to eat – and if he's lucky enough, they have wine and booze. He's going to have a wonderful night in the woods, in Roach's company and with a... a ham sandwich, he finds, and a liquor he doesn't recognize, but it seems good. The smell is good, and that's enough.“Are you... are you stealing from dead people?”The road to come back to life doesn't end when a body opens his eyes again.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 35
Kudos: 295





	To be alone together

**Author's Note:**

> I repeat it here too: there is a character that has suicidal thoughts.
> 
> This fic is a bit important to me. I've been in Jaskier and Geralt's place, and it hasn't been easy writing this concept (and I cried a bit too, considering that when I started writing this, this was not what I had in mind lmao). I'm sorry if there are mistakes!  
> I want you all to be safe, expecially in this dire times. And thank you so much for reading this, and if you do, for commenting and leaving kudos. I love you all! ♥

Geralt snorts, looking at the severed head at his feet. Every time is worse than the last, but bandits just don't understand that he's going to fight regardless his all being telling him that it's wrong, he's not going to get punched and robbed just because of what townsfolk, then, say about him.

He ignores the blood on his hands, and on his armor. Blood that isn't of monsters, but just people too angry, too mad, too greedy.

He doesn't ignore the bags, though. So, he sheathes his sword, crouches near the dead bodies, and rummages in their satchels, hoping to find something to eat – and if he's lucky enough, they have wine and booze. He's going to have a wonderful night in the woods, in Roach's company and with a... a ham sandwich, he finds, and a liquor he doesn't recognize, but it seems good. The smell is good, and that's enough.

“Are you... are you stealing from dead people?”

Geralt freezes, and for a second he doesn't know what to do. He didn't hear anyone approaching, and he didn't feel anyone around him until he heard that voice.

He puts an hand on the hilt of his sword, and turns around. Just to freeze again.

“I am in no position to criticize your way of living, but, _uuh_ , maybe it's kind of unethical?” the figure in front of him starts to move his hands in a swiftly way, “Really, I wouldn't feel very respected.”

“They were trying to rob and kill me.” Geralt says, just because he's trying to gain more time to understand _what the fuck_ is in front of him.

“Well.” the figure sniffs, “I guess that's... that's even. They were trying to rob and kill you, and in response you _did_ kill and rob them. Makes sense.”

Geralt says, “You are a ghost.”

The ghost pouts. It _literally_ pouts: its mouth's edges point towards the ground, and its lower lip gets bitten by its teeth, “I am very aware, dear stranger. It's really sad, I must say, because I can't really see my face in any kind of reflective surface, but I _feel_ very young. Isn't it unfair? I am too young to be dead! But wait, you can see me? People couldn't. Not that I was in towns for long, really, but they never told anything about a strange, translucent, and I guess attractive ghost around them. Anyway, you can see me! Can you tell me if I am young or I am just a very healthy – as healthy as a dead man could be, I suppose – old man?”

The ghost in front of him is a young lad, indeed. His skin is translucent, in fact, so Geralt can't really say of what his hair colour was when he was alive, same with his eyes. “You're young. No more than twenty, maybe less.”

“See?” the ghost seems outraged, “That's an injustice.”

“People die all the time, you are not the only one.” says Geralt, and abandons the grip he has on his sword. “They killed you?” adds then, pointing the dead bodies at his feet.

“I have no idea. I don't even know who I am. Hell, I don't even know how's my face! How can I know who killed me?”

“Hm.”

“I found myself in the nearest town. I didn't travel a lot. I don't really know what should I do. Wasn't I supposed to, I don't know, transcend or something? They didn't become ghosts.” the ghost says, indicating the dead bandits with a dry gesture. “Why am I stuck here?”

“Don't know.” Geralt says. He grabs the things he found in the bandits satchels, and goes towards Roach. He puts everything inside her saddlebag, then jumps on top of her. “But I'm a Witcher. I can find out what happened to you. Probably your body lays somewhere in town. Hopefully, someone will pay me for finding you.”

“I'm not sure about that.” the ghost's voice takes on a bitter sound. “I haven't heard anything about me. I guess that, that maybe no one misses me.”

“Hm.” Geralt doesn't say anything, nudging Roach to start trotting towards civilization. If he remembers correctly, the closest town is Posada, and it's a two day ride. “You're not a wraith yet. Probably you died not too long ago. Your family may not know of your demise yet.”

“Maybe.”

Geralt feels strange. It's uncommon to find a conscious ghost, an _innocuous_ ghost – after all, they don't take too long to become wraiths. If the boy didn't die a painful death, he didn't become a ghost in the first place, so that's out of questions.

Somehow, something twists in his chest in knowing that, for sure, the boy died a horrid death. Life is never fair, after all. The best thing Geralt can do for him, is to give him peace.

“Anyway! I don't know your name, Witcher. I don't know mine either, really, but from the moment I found myself a ghost I called myself Jaskier. I don't know if I was called like this before my death or if I just, you know, invented it on the spot, but you can call me that.”

Jaskier is definitely a made up name. But maybe it was his pet name, it can be useful.

“You talk a lot.”

Behind him, the ghost – Jaskier – huffs, “Do you have any idea how does it feel to talk and no one ever listen to you? Well, no one can see me, nor hear me. It really hurts my feelings. But here you are, Witcher, with your powerful... very fantastic witchery powers, you can do all this things! And my feelings hurt no more, with finally someone hearing my laments.”

“They are whines, not laments.”

“That's the same.” the boy says, nonchalant. Geralt can't hear his steps, obviously, but with the corner of his eye he sees his light silhouette getting near him and Roach. Roach flicks her ears, but she doesn't get scared of the presence. Good girl. “So, your name? I need to call you, you know. And I refuse to call you just Witcher!”

“Geralt of Rivia.”

“Thank _you_ , Geralt of Rivia.” The wood around them gets thicker, and it covers most of the rays of midday sun. Apart from the scuffle with the bandits, and apart from the fact that he's now, well, _haunted_ , the day seems to be uneventful. Just the wood on the Path in front of him – of them – and the clear sky above them. “Where are we going?”

It's going to be uneventful, but fuck. The ghost can't stay silent for shit.

“Posada.”

“Why Posada?”

“It's the nearest town.”

“Is it? Gods, I don't know if it was actually Posada I found myself in. Well, maybe? I guess I will find out the moment I will recognize the streets.”

“You said the nearest. Posada is the nearest.”

“Uh, yeah, sure. What you said.” Jaskier clears his voice. Does ghosts need to clear their voice? Or to cover their embarrassment? Do they even _feel_ embarrassment? “I am deeply sorry if I can't be more of help. I really don't remember anything. Nothing, just black void in my head.”

Geralt sighs, “I have no doubt.”

“Wait.” Jaskier huffs in outrage, running until he can be in front of Roach. He stops there in the middle of the Path, and Roach flicks her ears again. Geralt calms her with a caress on her neck. “What are you implying? That I'm an idiot? I am _dead_ , I have any reason to be distracted and confused. If you've ever been dead, you'd understand.”

Geralt raises an eyebrow.

“No, wait, I said it wrong.”

Geralt nudges Roach again in a calm but steady ride, “Less talking, more walking.”

“But I've been walking for days, Geralt, and my feet are sore!”

“You're dead. You can't have sore feet.”

Jaskier pouts again, and even if he could easily stay in the middle of the road – not that Roach would have killed him by walking on him, after all – he nonetheless leaves the Path free for the horse, and Geralt then finds him walking beside him again. Jaskier starts talking about the things he's done from the moment he found himself dead since the moment he found Geralt, and really he hasn't done literally anything, but the ghost can't seem to shut up about the people ignoring him, about his tired limbs and the fact that he still thinks that stealing food from dead bodies is a bit strange.

Jaskier emphasizes that with more fervor when they stop in a clearing for the night, and after Geralt has lighted a fire and taken care of Roach, he sits in his sprawled bedroll and takes out from Roach's saddlebag one of the sandwiches he found in the bandits' satchels.

But at that point, Jaskier – finally, Geralt would say – shuts up.

Feeling observed, Geralt looks at him with his mouth full and with a raised eyebrow.

Jaskier shakes his head, and with a huff, he sits next to him. “No, nothing.” he says, while fidgeting with a hem of his shirtsleeve. “Okay, well, if you really want to know,” he adds then, even though Geralt has ignored him, “I am, _uh_. I am hungry.”

Geralt blinks at him. “Hm. Let me see if I have a ghost sandwich in my bag. Hm, no. I haven't. I apologize.”

“You are really, _reeaaally_ rude. And awful. A very bad person, that has no sensitivity towards the dead! Oh, I should have known that the moment you _stole_ from a dead man!”

“They were three, but go on.”

“See? Awful!”

“You are aware that you can't feel hunger.”

“And yet!”

Geralt looks at him with half lidded eyes, unbothered by his whining. This ghost is strange and innocuous, but leaves a kind of feeling in his gut that Geralt doesn't like. It's not danger, more nervousness he daresay – for what, he doesn't know. Probably because he's still too... _lively_. Ghosts shouldn't have so much energy, so heartfelt emotions.

Really, all ghosts Geralt has seen all his long life – they are actually a lot, wraiths the lot of them, and they all rest in peace now thanks to his sword – were... very different from Jaskier, in many way beside the appearance.

Geralt finishes his dinner, feed the fire so it won't die during the night, and lays on his bedroll. “Can you stay silent now? I want to sleep.”

Jaskier tightens his lips, upset. “I can shut up if needed. If my chatters bother you so much you can just say so!”

“They bother me. Now I have to sleep. Shut up.”

Jaskier doesn't say anything anymore.

When the morning comes, Geralt finds a ghost sleeping on the ground next to him.

He blinks, thinking that perhaps he's still sleeping – hence, he's just dreaming about Jaskier, the fucking ghost that haunts him, snoring between him and the dying fire, as if it's the most normal thing in the world.

It's really not.

Geralt stays immobile for a minute or so, not knowing what to do. The uneasy feeling of the past evening returns tenfold, at the sight of the sleeping ghost. Ghosts shouldn't fall asleep. Ghosts shouldn't feel hunger, or feel embarrassed, or enraged, or outraged by his words and actions.

“ _Mhh_.” Jaskier grumbles, and apparently he talks to his sleep too. Is the ghost dreaming, too? What the fuck.

“Wake up.” thunders Geralt, hoping that he'll wake up if he shout louder. When Jaskier doesn't, Geralt hesitates just for a second, before trying to touch him.

As expected, his hand passes though the ghost shoulder.

Even if there were no touch, Jaskier jolts awake nonetheless. “ _W'at_ ,” he mumbles, scrambling until he sits up. He looks around, and then his gray eyes settle on Geralt. “Oh. Good day, darling Witcher. How are you feeling this fine morning? I hope you slept well, because I can't say the same. Next time, how about we, uh, we share that love– _uh_ , lovely bedroll you have there? My back will be forever grateful.”

“What the fuck.” Geralt gets up and, while trying to understand what the fuck is going on, rolls the bedroll inside the saddlebag, kicks some earth on the embers of the fire, and then starts to saddle Roach. He looks into her black, judgmental eyes, not finding any answer in them.

“If you don't want to, you can just say so. I'm dead, after all, who cares about my comfort, anyway?”

“You're dead.” says Geralt, turning and pointing a finger to him, “You– you can't feel uncomfortable, you can't fall asleep, you can't feel hunger or anything of that shit.”

Jaskier opens his mouth in a confused expression, his lips forming a perfect oval o, “Now that you mention it, I am still hungry! I've been for a while, but you know, being already dead I can't really die of hunger.” he chuckles, but when he doesn't see Geralt join him, his laugh dies. “Uh. What is it? It seems like you've seen...” and then, he brings a hand on his lips, probably trying to not burst out laughing, “A _ghost_.”

“I've seen an complete idiot instead.” Geralt growls, jumping on Roach.

“Hey! I'm not offending anyone here! You're still being rude, even after a good night sleep. What should I say, uh? I slept like shit, while there you were, sleeping like...” again, the same expression pops on Jaskier face, “The _dead_.”

Geralt doesn't believe in any God, but if only one of them exists, in this exact moment Geralt prays that they send him some kind of help, while he nudges Roach to starts trotting. _Fast_.

“Hey!” he hears Jaskier shout behind him, “Come one, I was just trying to downplay the whole situation. It's really not easy!” Geralt hears him huffs, as if he's getting tired running after him. A fucking ghost. Tired of running. “I'm sorry, alright? Please, slow down!”

Geralt does, after a while. But the whole thing is getting ridiculous.

Jaskier sighs, satisfied when he finally reaches him, “You know, you should do something about your humor. They were good puns, said in the perfect moment. I think that maybe when I was alive I was a comedian. What if I was really? What if I was a famous comedian, wanted in every company throughout the Continent? Uhm, nah, I don't think so. If I was famous, surely someone would be in search for me.”

“They probably are. And I swear, the second I find them–”

“ _Ah–ha_! You can't leave me to them! They can't see me! And also, I am your job, you can't leave me until you find my body and help me go to, uh, heaven!”

“–They better pay me very well for having put up with you.”

“If I really was a famous comedian, I am worth a lot.”

Geralt really doubts that. “Hm.” he just says, looking straight at the Path in front of him. The whole situation is ridiculous, this ghost is ridiculous, the the most ridiculous thing is that Geralt still doesn't know what the fuck to do.

Jaskier is not a normal ghost. He's probably a new kind, born out of strange circumstances. He definitely died painfully, that is no space for argument, but maybe he didn't die by the hand of a human. Probably because of magic, or some curse that damned his soul to be forever stuck on Earth, feeling like a boy, but never becoming one again.

It's plausible.

It's just that, if this is really caused by magic, a Witcher alone can do much. He can break the curse, but only with a little magic help on his part too.

He snorts, and Jaskier stops his chattering – fuck, he didn't even notice that he was _still_ talking – and looks at him in the eyes, cocking his young – Gods, _too_ young – face to the side. “Uh. Jokes apart, are you fine? You seem... scared.”

“I'm not scared.” That is ridiculous too. He's definitely not scared, because the idiot is an unknown creature, but he is definitely not dangerous. Not yet, at least. “Just, I hate to not understand. And I still don't understand what the fuck are you.”

“Well.” Jaskier sniffs, then he smiles. Geralt looks at him and thinks that if only he is alive, Jaskier's face would brightens, his eyes would shine. Probably his cheeks would assume an adorable shade of pink. “What can I say? I'm special.”

He probably would have been, if only he didn't die.

They reach Posada earlier than Geralt thought. The sun is setting, but its light still brightens the streets, the townsfolk are still swarming in the marketplace. There is a tiny notice board next to a tavern, where, sadly, there are no contracts for Witchers.

Nor there are news about missing persons.

“I guess I wasn't famous, after all.” says Jaskier. His tone lost the cheerful sound he had throughout the day.

“We still have to asks the townsfolk.”

“I... don't ask me how I know this, but I have the feeling that it will be a total waste of time. No one misses me, Geralt.”

Then, Jaskier stays silent for all the rest of the day. Even if that is what Geralt wanted – the ghost is annoying, he can't stay still or shut for more than a fucking second, and Geralt isn't used to have company in general – the silence feels wrong.

Still, Geralt doesn't asks nor tell him anything. He just goes around the town, asking the barkeeper if he knew about a missing person, a young lad going by the name of Jaskier that can also be just a pet name. He asks the same to the innkeeper, to the alderman, to the merchants in the marketplace and also some of their customers – the ones that don't spit at his feet, at least.

None of them tell him anything useful.

Jaskier seems unperturbed by the lack of interest towards his disappearance, but the silence is now deafening, even when they enter in the inn to rent a room, and there are people singing and dancing in the tavern across the street. The absence of constant chattering, even after just a day and a half, is upsetting.

Geralt understands, in that horrifying moment, that he can, after all, get used to the company.

When all is dark, they go inside the inn and Geralt rents a room, after taking care of Roach in the stables.

“Go inside the room.” he mutters under his breath to the ghost, “I'll order food and eat there.” _So, at least, I can talk to you, if you want, without the patrons thinking I'm insane,_ Geralt thinks and wants to say, but the words get stuck in his throat.

Jaskier shrugs, and heads upstairs.

Geralt follows him after a while, with a mug of ale in one hand and a lukewarm broth in the other. He finds the ghost looking outside the window, with a longing expression that – at least _that –_ seems so familiar. Geralt has seen a lot of ghost with a longing face on, even the ones with the skeleton features. They usually long for peace, they aren't able to feel anything else after all.

Something tells him that Jaskier isn't longing for peace.

He jumps and looks at him when Geralt approaches. He has very wide eyes. Geralt wonders, for a second, what colour they were when he was alive. “Oh, you're back! For a second I thought– well, nevermind. Is that ale? Gods, I would sell my soul just to wet my lips and taste it.”

“It tastes like piss. Not worth a soul.”

Jaskier shrugs and turns back towards the window. “Still.”

Geralt follows his gaze, and sees the tavern across the street. It's lighted with candles and torches, inside and outside, and laughs are shouted and songs are sung. From windows, Geralt can also see that there is a young lass that's singing and a lot of couples dancing around her. Upstairs, from another window, a couple are actually starting to fuck.

“Do you think it's normal missing something that you don't remember ever done?” Jaskier asks, pouting a bit differently than usually. More sadly than usual. “I mean, look at them. It seems so fun.”

Geralt lips twitch, “They are definitely having fun.”

“I know! I can see them!” the ghost huffs. “I don't remember ever done that, and yet... and yet I feel so envious. I would like so much to go there and join them.”

“A threesome is a peculiar way to lost virginity.”

Jaskier blinks, frowning confused. “What?” he looks at him with a clear question written on his face, and Geralt lips twitch again. “To lost what? I don't remember, of course, but I _surely_ lost that long ago, thank you very much.”

“You seem sure.”

“I am! I... I am sexy, am I not?” one of his finger touches the glass of the window, where his reflection should be. But there isn't. “I am sure one hundred percent that, when I was alive, I had plenty of women. You know what, probably one of them killed me out of jealousy. It's totally plausible. But apart from that, what's wrong with you? I was talking about that bard!”

“You want to fuck the bard?” Geralt wouldn't say that out loud, but he's actually having fun, even if he feels a bit bitter. His reactions are so... alive.

“What, no. I mean, yes, but– oh, fuck you, you oaf! I meant the singing, and the dancing!” he huffs, indignant, “It seems fun, it seems they are having so much fun.”

Geralt almost snorts, “Hm.”

“Yeah, you don't really seem the type to be out there and enjoy yourself. But I am. And I think that I was. I bet I was having the time of my life when I was killed.”

“We don't know if you've been killed. It can also have been an incident.”

Jaskier waves a hand, nonchalant. “Yeah whatever, that's not important. The unjust thing is _me_. _Dead_. During the time of my life. Anyway, why were you talking about fucking? Are you– oh Gods, I– they are fucking!” he cries, pushing his finger again on the window, when he finally sees the couple. “They... well, they are having fun, too.”

Geralt sighs, and turns away from the window. He sits on the bed, drinks his ale and eats the bit of meat inside his broth. It's not much, but the innkeeper has been too much kind, considering that he didn't even spit in his food. During all of that, Jaskier keeps looking at the window, and even if Geralt wants to make fun of him telling him to stop looking at people fucking, he knows that he is not looking at them, but at the people downstairs.

“You can join them, if you want.” he says, then. “No one would see nor hear you.”

“Then, what's the point? If no one hears my singing, is it worth it? I actually know a lot of pretty songs. Most of them are bawdy ones, but I don't think that they would mind.”

Geralt grimaces. He puts the empty bowl and mug on the nightstand, and mutters, “I'm gonna regret this.” then he sighs, and says, raising a bit his voice. “You can sing here. I can hear you.”

Jaskier turns around so fast that he almost stumbles. Fuck, a ghost that stumbles. Unbelievable. “Really?”

“But I also want to sleep. So,” and trails off, making a dry gesture of something cut. It means: _keep it short_. He doesn't know why he doesn't say it out loud, maybe because of the happiness in Jaskier's dead eyes. This is so strange, fuck.

“Yes, yes, I– I actually know some lullabies. I can sing you to sleep, it might help you!”

“I don't need help of that sort.”

“You are very grumpy, but you know? I'm starting to like you! So I will help you welcome yourself in the arms of Morpheus, with my angelic voice. You can thank me tomorrow.”

Geralt knew that he was going to regret it.

“So, _chop_ , _chop_! Lay on the bed, and _uh_ , tack yourself the covers because I can't do that, you know, I can't touch them.” Jaskier coughs, probably feeling discomfort under Geralt's annoyed stare. “Yeah, fine. Blow the candles, too. I still don't know how to do that with my ghostly powers.”

Bringing a hand in his hair, he tightens his lips. Gods, he's doing that because the poor boy is a cursed dead boy, and this might help him find peace. He has to endure it for a bit. He can do that.

He has endured worse, after all.

So, he does what Jaskier asked – ordered – to, closes his eyes and feels himself relax, lulled by Jaskier's soft voice.

He wakes up with a pair of ghostly gray eyes looking straight at him.

“You are very welcome, dear Witcher o' mine!” Jaskier sing–songs, winking at him as he raises from the bed.

Damn. He slept well.

But it's not thanks to Jaskier's voice at all.

“Shut up.” he just says, petulantly.

It becomes an habit. Fucking hell.

A couple of weeks after they left Posada, Geralt still doesn't know what to do with the ghost haunting him. He has no trails to follow, and the towns they reached and passed gave them no help.

Jaskier is the same annoying shit, but every time they find no one searching for him, it's like he dies a little bit. Jokes aside. Grudgingly, Geralt tries to lift his morals, and unexpectedly he's able to do that every single time. It's really easy to make Jaskier happy, it's enough giving him a bit of attention and he goes back to his cheerful self.

He seems to be very content while singing him to sleep. And Geralt doesn't mind waking up next to a sleeping ghost – even if it still is quite unnerving, the sight.

“You are strange.” he says to him, one day. Geralt, now that he has a companion of sorts, he's forced to talk more. The thing is, he doesn't hate as much as he thought he would.

Jaskier grins, “Thank you! Is that a compliment?”

Geralt just twists his lips.

He's skinning a rabbit, having found nothing better in the forest around them. Jaskier looks at the process with a slightly disgusted expression, and if only he's alive, he would probably have thrown up at this point. “Not as strange as you, though, Geralt dear.” the ghost says, raising his eyes from the dead rabbit and looking straight at him, “You are a wonderful, powerful, quite scary Witcher and yet, people don't treat you how you deserve. Fucking hell, Geralt, you save their asses, putting yourself in danger in the process, and they don't even want to _pay you_. That's outrageous, that's scam!”

Geralt raises his eyebrows, stopping his skinning to look at the ghost.

“Yes, well, I wanted to tell you this for a while. You kinda gave me an opening.”

“Wasn't my intention.”

“I'm aware.” Jaskier sighs, and starts to crawl to get closer to him, “But it's not fair, how they treat you. I'm starting to think that they deserve whatever monster plagues them. Hell, I'm starting to think that it's in your fucking _right_ stealing from them! You should do it even when they are not dead, though.”

“Hm. They don't deserve death just because they don't like me.” Geralt shrugs, starting again with his job. The rabbit is almost ready, and the skewers he found are strong enough that they probably won't break or burn while cooking.

He puts a skewer into the rabbit, and sees Jaskier grimacing with the corner of his eye.

“That makes no sense. Why they don't like you? You save their life!”

“Some of them die.” he says, putting the rabbit on the embers.

“But that's not your fault. They have a chance to survive thanks to you, without you they would have died nonetheless.” then, he raises his hands to the sky, in a gesture of sheer petulance. “Oh, Melitele! If only I was alive, I would sing your heroic gestures around the Continent, and people would finally open their eyes and treat you with the respect you deserve. Oh, that's _exactly_ what you need, Geralt. A bit of popularity. Not much, I know you aren't a type to balks in the streets like celebrities, but at least innkeepers wouldn't dare to reject your request of a hot bath. That you really need, Geralt. When was last time you washed yourself? Half a month ago?”

“I wash myself in rivers.”

“You need soaps, and oils for you hair.” Jaskier gets closer, until Geralt finds his face at a breath away, “If only I was alive, I would take care of your needs.”

Geralt raises a hand, because he wants to push him away – but he can't touch him. So, he just grunts. “No, you wouldn't.”

“How do you know that?”

“You are royalty.” Geralt points at his gray clothes, the ones he's surely died on. Obviously he can't see the colors, or the materials the are – were – made of, but they don't belong to some artisan, for example. “Apart from your clothes, your fingers are full of rings. I can't tell if they're made of gold, but no townsfolk can afford stuff like that. Your hair seems well taken care of, and your nails too. Your fingertips have calluses, but they aren't caused by fatigue, so you probably never raised a finger for work all your life.”

Jaskier blinks, “Maybe I didn't have the time.”

“Boys start to work since childhood, if they are in need. You are way too old for that.”

Jaskier sits on his knees in front of him, a lowers his eyes to look at his hands. Geralt can't tell what he's thinking – usually, for him it's so simple guessing someone's emotion by the scent of them, or the drumming of their heartbeats, but Jaskier is a ghost: he smells like nothing and his heart stopped beating long ago – but by the way he's biting his lower lip, Jaskier is troubled. “Well,” he says, after a while, “If we... if we never find my body, if we never find this hypothetical person that's searching for me, there is... uh, there is a way, for me, to remember something of my life?”

His first thought is that he wants to tell him that yes, it's possible that there is a way. But that would mean to lie to him, because, truth be known, he doesn't know that for sure.

So, he just says, “I don't know.”

“ _Mhh_ , I guess that would be painful to remember my death. Maybe it's best if I don't remember anything.”

Geralt nods. What is he supposed to say, after all? “Hm.”

Jaskier lets his hands fall on his thighs, as if without much strength to still keep them raised. He bites again his lip, and Geralt, at this points, knows that he does that when he is nervous. The same with his fingers, he fidgets a lot when he feels bothered. “Geralt,” he whispers, even if no one would hear him nonetheless, if not him. “I wish I met you when I was alive.” he blinks, and Geralt wonders if he can cry, too. He can do a lot of thing ghosts can't, after all – Geralt wouldn't even feel surprised. “Regardless of what you say, of what I was, I know myself. I know that I would have followed you, in a way or another. And maybe, just maybe, if I was with you, I... I wouldn't have died in the first place. You would have saved me.”

“Or you would have died sooner. A monster, bandits, angry townsfolk. The list is long.”

“Maybe.” Jaskier sighs, “We will never know.”

Geralt eats, then, and Jaskier stays silent. As silent as he can, at least: he still hums under his breath, lost in thoughts. Sometimes there is a melancholy in him that Geralt can't comprehend, considering that he has no memories of his life. He guesses that Jaskier just misses being alive, or the thought of it at least, and that's just. Can't really blame him.

That night, Jaskier falls asleep before him. He still sang, but his eyes dropped shut while Geralt was still tormented about things he can't understand. Even in his sleep, Jaskier isn't someone that's able to stay still: his lids flutter, his mouth mutters incomprehensible sentences, his fingers twitch as if he's plucking chords of some instrument.

He's probably dreaming. And by the frown in his forehead, doesn't seem a pleasant dream.

The morning after, Geralt doesn't ask about his nightmare. And Jaskier doesn't tell him.

Somewhere in Temeria, Geralt says, “I have a contract.”

Jaskier is next to Roach, and is muttering something in her ears. At this point, the horse isn't bothered about the ghostly presence anymore – she can sense him, even if she can't see nor ear him after all – so she simply ignores him. Her ears, though, flutter lightly when Jaskier puts his hands on his hips. “I _know_ she can hear me. Or, well, sense me at least. Why is she ignore me? Oh, dear girl, if only I was able to touch things, I would have given you a lot of treats. We would have been the best of friends!” he moans, but then he stops and turns to look at Geralt, “What did you say?”

“I have a contract. It will take long.”

“Oh. Can I come?”

“No.”

Jaskier pouts, “Why not? It's not like I'm going to be in danger. You know, I can't die a second time.”

The thought of Jaskier seeing him as he fights, intoxicated by his potions, doesn't sit well in his stomach. “You will only distract me.”

“How so? Come on!” Jaskier fidgets with a hem of his shirtsleeve, and his eyes waver. He wants to lowers his gaze, but he's trying really hard to not to. “It's... it's like you are trying to get rid of me. Are you? Because it makes no sense, Geralt. I can't distract you in any way.”

Geralt looks at him, with a deadpanned expression, “Will you start shouting in my ears if I get hit?”

Jaskier opens his mouth in a perfect o, “That's irrelevant.”

“You will distract me. And also, I need someone to stay with Roach.”

“Don't find excuses, Geralt. I can't stop anyone who might try to steal your _fu_ – adorable horse.” he crosses his arms against his chest, and eyes Roach – he still is convinced that she may be hearing him. “And I've been with you on hunts before. Did I bother you?”

“This time isn't just a drowners nest, Jaskier. Drop it, you'll stay here at the stable.”

Then, Geralt sits on the ground, starting rummaging in his bag. He needs to prepare his potions: the fight with the striga is going to be terrible, and it's worse considering that he is going to try to lift the curse. There's a chance he doesn't make it alive.

But eyeing the pouting ghost in front of him, he refuses to die before helping him.

“You, uh.” Jaskier sniffs, after a stretched silence where just the tinkling of his potions is heard. “You will come back, right? This is not a pretext of sorts to– to just get rid of me because you've got tired of me, right?”

Freezing, Geralt raises his eyes. Jaskier is looking at him with wide, blown pupils. _He's scared_ , Geralt thinks. He can't tell why, but that expression is usually on many people he encounters. It's so wrong on Jaskier's face, though. “If I want to get rid of you, I wouldn't let you stay with Roach. I won't abandon my horse.”

“Oh.” Jaskier murmurs. “Right. Roach. Sure, I'm– stupid. Of course you won't leave your horse.”

“If I don't come back, Jaskier,” he adds, this time gently. It seems so important that Jaskier understands that Geralt won't stop trying to give him peace. “It's because I died.”

Jaskier winces. “Oh.” he repeats. “Well,” he tries to smile, but it turns out more like a grimace. “If you die, and I pray that you won't, Geralt– _fuck_. I mean, if you die, will we... haunt the Continent together?”

Geralt grins, slightly, “No Witcher became a ghost. And I won't be the first.”

“You are no fun, Geralt.” he drops to his knees next to him, as if he has lost all strength in his legs, and tries to touch him. As expected, his hand just pass through his shoulder: it's a strange sensation, not pleasant but not unpleasant either. Somehow, and Geralt can tell as much seeing his expression, the gesture hurts more Jaskier than him. “I'm just... so scared of being alone. Terrorized, I daresay. Did I die alone? That's why I feel like this?”

Geralt chest tightens at those words, “I don't know, Jaskier.”

“Don't die, please. I don't want to be alone.”

_But I will be,_ thinks Geralt, _I will be when I'll find your body, burn your remains, and give you peace._

“I'll try my best.” he just says, but it seems to be enough for Jaskier, because he exhales as if a painful weight lifted off his shoulder.

Jaskier smiles, wide, and Geralt feels a bit disoriented by his change of hearts. He does that a lot. Not that Geralt minds, Jaskier is surprisingly easy to live with, even with his maybe too sparkling emotions. “I'm counting on it.” he bites his lips again, “I really want to hug you now. For good luck. Is it going to be difficult, this contract?”

“Hm.”

“Can you tell me more?” Jaskier asks, excited.

“A striga. I need to distract her all night, and don't let her crawl back in her crypt.”

“To kill her?”

“To save her. It's a curse that turn her into the creature.”

Jaskier smiles again, this time more softly, “Gods, Geralt.” he whispers, passing an hand on his face, “The savior of humanity – and monsters. I should have known, I am one of them after all.”

“I still didn't save you, Jaskier.”

“ _Mhh_ , haven't you?” Jaskier mumbles, and finally he pops down on the ground, his head so close to his thigh that if only he had a consistent body, he would have laid his head on it. “Anyway, not yet surely. And I'm starting to hope that you will never find my body... because I don't know then what will happen, where I will go, and if– if I'll be alone again. I'm fine like this, even without the touch, and the songs and dances, and the hunger. This is better than the unknown.”

Geralt wants to tell him that this is stupid, and ridiculous. They have to find his body soon, or there's a risk he'll become a wraith, and Geralt has to cut through him with his sword, and he'll be in so much pain.

For reasons, Geralt doesn't say anything. But his hand twitches, so close to his face.

The job has gone relatively well.

This, until the little girl embeds the last of her claws into his neck.

“Who's Renfri?”

When he regains consciousness, the first thing Geralt sees is the gray, worried eyes of Jaskier. They are wide, shining of unshed tears, and Geralt thinks, a bit feverishly, that he can indeed cry. He shouldn't be surprised, and he really is not, but his chest constricts the same.

So he just groans.

“I'm sorry, I... I followed you, alright? I was worried, and thank the Gods I did! When I saw you bleeding your fucking heart out I... I panicked! I went looking for someone, hoping that there would be a witchery guy like you that could have seen me and heard me. And I found her!” Jaskier blabs, agitated, and points behind his back. “She cured you, and you know what's the strangest thing of all this? Is that she knows me!”

“What–” Geralt tries to ask, because he's not understanding a thing of what he's saying.

“Who's Renfri, though? You were muttering their name.”

Geralt raises up, and the skin at his neck pulls and feels tender, but it doesn't hurt. He rarely gets cured by magic, but he's able to acknowledge if it's being used or not.

His medallion hums, slowly, when his eyes fall on Triss Merigold.

Geralt grimaces. He wasn't thinking about Renfri for a while – all his thoughts were about a particular ghost. “Someone I couldn't save.” he just says, and Jaskier lowers his eyes, asking anything anymore. “What happened?”

“You saved the princess.” says Triss, “And you survived. Here's your pay.”

Geralt accepts the satchel full of coins, “Hm.” he nods, then looks at Jaskier. He still seems worried, “I'm fine, Jaskier.” he tells him, because he wants that sad expression off his face, he wants back his easy smiles. This is because of his wounds, right? Nothing else happened, right?

“And I thank the beautiful lady for this. You scared the shit out of me, Geralt, and that's a very great deal, considering that I can't shit in the state I am in.”

Triss laughs.

Geralt smiles, “You are ridiculous.”

“I know! I always start blabbing when I'm nervous. Sorry. Wait, what do you think you're doing? Lay down immediately, Geralt, you still need to rest! The striga sliced your fucking neck open, and there was blood anywhere, and you were _dying_!”

“I didn't.”

“That's not the point!”

Jaskier sits in the ground, in front of the makeshift bed where he lays. Behind him, Triss is looking at the both of them with a curious expression on her face, her hands folded under her breasts. Somehow, Geralt can't trust her fully: there is something he heard but didn't elaborate that escapes him, and from the knowing look in her eyes, she is aware of that.

“Where we should go is not far away, Julian.” she says, looking at Jaskier. “I don't have a lot of places to hide my patients, after all. We can go there slowly, so Geralt doesn't get tired.”

“What the fuck are you talking about?” Geralt asks, raising from the bed and ignoring Jaskier's splutters, “And why did you call him _Julian_?”

“Because that's my name!” Jaskier's dead eyes are shining, no more glistening with tears. “And, uh, I would really like if you still keep calling me Jaskier, though. I like it better. Feels more mine.” he smiles, brightening his gray features. If only he was alive... if only... “And she said that I didn't die. I, I didn't completely understand, if I'm being honest, but she said that I'm still alive, just sleeping somewhere.”

“Room at the end of the corridor, actually.” says Triss. She still has a strange twinkle in her eyes.

“I'm sleeping in the room at the end of the corridor!” Jaskier repeats, seeming to vibrate with happiness. “Do you know what this means? It means that I will have my body back, Geralt! That I can _live_!”

But Geralt is still looking at the sorceress, “Is it true?”

Triss nods, “If he wants.”

“Why wouldn't I?” asks Jaskier, indignant. For a second, he just eyes at Geralt while he walks slowly, as if he's scared that he will, somehow, drop dead on the ground the moment he doesn't look. “I mean, I already wrapped my mind around the idea that I was rotting hidden in the worst ditch of the Continent, at this point. Now that I'm graced with a second chance, I won't be ungrateful. I really find no reason I shouldn't, uh, come back to life right now. Oh Gods, am I ugly? That's reason? Do I have a terrible malformation on my face that twists my flawless features?”

Geralt sighs, “No.”

He receives the biggest smile in return, “Do you mean that I am beautiful, instead?” he asks, cupping his own face between his own palms. Geralt would define the sight adorable, if he wasn't still a ghostly... ghost.

He, strangely, feels a trill down his spine thinking that, very soon, he can see Jaskier do the same thing with his corporeal body.

Triss, though, says nothing.

They cross a long corridor, ignoring other closing door near the one where Geralt was resting. At the end of it, Triss retrieves a key from a pocket in her dress and opens the last door, more hidden than the others. Inside, it smells sickly, and stale. The room hasn't been open for weeks, maybe months, it seems.

On the makeshift bed, similar of the one where Geralt found himself in, there is indeed Jaskier. He has dark hair, and his clothes are colorful and shiny. That sight makes Geralt smile, because he didn't expect differently for a type like Jaskier.

And, more importantly, there is a heartbeat. His chest is raising softly in a deep sleep.

“Oh.” Jaskier murmurs, getting closer. Suddenly, he seems shy. “I am cute. Thank the Gods. Uh, what do I do? Do I need a...” and Geralt can bet all his belongings that Jaskier is blushing right now, they just can't see him in his gray pallor. “...a true love kiss?”

Geralt's medallion hums near Jaskier's sleeping form.

“Who put him to sleep?” he asks then – because that is definitely an enchanted sleep –, after Triss shakes her head.

“I did.” she says. “And I can wake him.”

Geralt narrows his eyes, “Why?”

“I...” Triss tightens her hands on her stomach, pursuing her lips. “I am no murderer. I help people, I save them. I cure them, but I don't kill them. I can, if I want, of course. But I use my magic for healing, not much else.”

Geralt is starting to get annoyed. “That doesn't answer my question. Just spit it out.”

“You wanted to _die_ , Julian. You came to me and asked for a painless way to die. And... and I didn't know how to help you, but I don't kill people, especially not desperate people like you were, so... I put you to sleep, to give you a rest. I didn't know that this,” she then points at Jaskier's ghostly form, “could happen.”

Silence falls on them. Geralt can't wrap his mind around that fact, that's... _ridiculous_. Jaskier is so lively, so carefree. He has always imagined him loving the whole word, his life – he... can't imagine a Jaskier that wants to kill himself. That's impossible, it doesn't make any sense, and clashes with everything he learned of Jaskier during the month together.

“I didn't know what to do.” Triss says, at last.

“There were a lot of things to do, actually.” growls Geralt, stepping towards the sorceress. He doesn't dare to do much else, of course, and Triss must know this, but he feels... bad. He feels bad. “A lot of ways to help desperate people. You didn't have to kill him!”

“I didn't.” she whispers.

“What to you explain this, then?” Geralt too, then, points at the ghost. “What was your intention when you put him to sleep? Would you have woken him up, one day? And then?”

Triss doesn't answer.

“Can you really wake him up?”

He hears Jaskier sniff, behind him. Geralt turns to look at him and he has a strange face on, he can't quite tell what's thinking. And yet, he still doesn't like it. He is biting his lower lip, his eyes staring at his sleeping self. “Why?” he just asks, without looking at neither of them.

Somehow, Triss and he both know at what he is referring to.

“You didn't tell.” says Triss, with an apologetic smile.

“Oh.” Jaskier nods. Then, he inhales deeply, as if gaining as much courage he needs. “That's okay, I... I guess I am a very lucky bastard! I don't know the reason, but I don't care. I have another chance to live, after I made a mistake that now I regret, and I surely still regret when I will remember everything.” he nods again. Geralt has a feeling that he's trying to convince himself more than them. Even so, Geralt feels strangely so proud of him. “So, Lady Triss, wake me up, please. I thank you for trying to help me, but there is a lot of things I want to do! And I...” he smiles at Geralt, then, “Can't wait.”

Triss stares at him for long moments, before nodding. She, slowly, walks across the room until she finds herself beside Jaskier's sleeping body. The second she touches his forehead, the ghost disappears.

Geralt feels the loss immediately. He just hopes that he doesn't have to mourn him.

Triss murmurs something, then lets her touch fall. She sighs, then turns around, towards the door. On her way, she puts an hand on Geralt shoulder – and he stops himself to push her away. “He will wake up in any moment. Go near him, don't let him wake alone. You both can stay here as long as you want...” she trails off, “I... I'm sorry. There is a difference between helping a dying man and helping a man who wants to die. And I don't know how to cure illnesses of the mind. They don't bleed.”

Geralt doesn't deign her of a response. But when he looks at Jaskier, he feels self–conscious of her words: is Jaskier ill? Geralt still can't quite believe that he wanted to kill himself – but if that's true, then Jaskier needs help. A help that Geralt can't give him.

He is the last person who should blame Triss, really.

When he arrives at Jaskier's bedside, his face is just starting to scrunch. He has a frown on, and his mouth is pointing down, half–closed.

Finally he opens his eyes.

Fuck, he has blue eyes. A blue so bright, it resembles the sea at noon. It suits him.

Not after that, Jaskier's scent reaches his nostrils. He's sweet, floral, even if he smells a bit; he surely didn't bathe himself while dead – or sleeping. He can also smell an acrid scent, the one of sadness, and fear, and nervousness. Under the relief, Geralt can't stop himself to feel nauseous at the fact that now Jaskier remembers why he wanted to die.

“Hi.” Jaskier croaks, when unclear eyes stops on him. He tries to smile, but he doesn't succeed very well. “I'm fine.” he says, “I am. Don't worry.”

“Hm.”

He sits, and grimaces a bit. “Sorry, I... need a second.” he inhales, deeply. “Gods, I... I smell.”

And just for that, Jaskier starts to cry, silently.

Geralt doesn't know what to do. He isn't good at consoling, and his hands are made to kill, not for much else. He has no more responsibility on Jaskier, now that he's safe and sound – _is he, though_? – but... but Jaskier hates to be alone. He's scared of it. And Geralt is the only one in this room, and he's grown fond of the ghost haunting him for so long, he... hates seeing him cry.

So, that's why he gets closer, and as gentle as his rough hands can be, he wipes away the silent tears streaming down Jaskier's face.

His eyes, blown wide, stare at him. “I'm fine, I just... I just need a moment.” he repeats, with a broken, low voice.

“Take all the time you need.” he responds, gruffly. He hopes he's doing well.

“Thanks.” he tries to smile again, failing again. His lips stretch, and he may be fooling anyone with that grimace, but not Geralt: it's been a month, and Geralt's got used to his easy smiles, that emphasize his cheeks, that let tiny crow's feet bloom at the sides of his eyes. “You're touching me.”

Geralt freezes. “Is that wrong?”

“No, no! I... actually wanted that, remember?” he breathes in again, more shallowly than before. Than again, and again. “I'm fine, it'll pass soon.”

“You are hyperventilating.”

“Excuse me if I feel a bit overwhelmed.” he sniffs, and for a second Geralt almost thought that he's got his... ghost back, but the sheer unhappiness is still looming around him like a black cloud. “I'm fi–”

“If you say that you're fine again, I swear to the Gods, Jaskier–”

Jaskier chuckles, but it's kinda hallow. Then, suddenly, Jaskier hugs him and buries his head against his neck, the side not covered with bandages, and starts to breathe more calmly. Geralt doesn't know what to do with his hands, then he thinks, _fuck it_ , and puts them on Jaskier's back and hair. This is helping him, it seems, so why refrain himself? “But it's true,” Jaskier says, then, and his breath is thankfully soft and warm again against his skin, “I'm fine. And you're helping a lot. Thank you.”

“Hm.”

“Talkative as always, dear.”

Jaskier stays silent for a long time, after that. It feels strange, but Geralt doesn't bother him, because his heartbeat is slowing down, as his breathing – not _alarmingly_ slow, that is. When Jaskier ends the hug, his tears have dried and there is an healthy red blotching his cheeks.

Gods, he's fine. He has to be.

“Sorry, I know I must smell terribly.” he scrunches his nose, lowering his head towards one of his armpit. “Uh... is there a washroom somewhere? I had a bag with me when I... came here...” he swallows, and clears his throat. “There were soap and oils in there.”

“There should be. Or else Triss couldn't wash away the blood on me, right?”

“Oh.” Jaskier blinks, “Right. I forgot.”

“It's okay.” Geralt says, awkwardly. He feels like walking on thin ice. “Go there. I'll find your bag.”

Jaskier's fingers creep in his palm, to stop him walking away, “Will you join me?” he asks, then blushes slightly, “I mean... I... not in any... strange way. I just... I don't want to be alone.”

Geralt tights one last time his hand on the back of his neck, and grins while nodding. Just yesterday, Geralt would have probably made fun of him, but now it doesn't seem the right time. When Jaskier will feel better, maybe.

“I have to... ask you something, later. I don't really want to talk, but...”

“It's fine, Jaskier. You don't have to.”

Jaskier hops down his bed, and stumbles towards the door. “Right. Thank you.”

Throwing him a little smile – not one of his usual smiles, but at least that seems better than before – he stumbles slowly out the room.

Geralt finds him already soaking into the tub. He is seated hugging his knees against his chest, lost drooped eyes staring into the nothingness in front of him. Just a little candle is lit, but most of the washroom is hidden in darkness – and of course, Geralt can see almost perfectly in it even without taking one of his potions, but surely Jaskier can't do the same. He doesn't seem bothered, though.

When, slowly, Geralt clears his throat to let Jaskier know his presence, the boy jumps the same. Jaskier smiles, softly, the moment he sees him illuminated by the candlelight, and something in Geralt's chest loosens seeing him calmer. Yes, he's not jumping in cheerfulness as before, but that's progress, he guesses.

“Hi.” Jaskier whispers. He has goosebumps along his shoulders and arms. Geralt's eyes don't dare go farther than his chest – he has hair covering most of his it and that sight would have surely made a woman blush. Not Geralt.

Geralt grunts, “Found your bag.” he says, with a low voice. He drops the bag on the floor next to the tub, close enough for Jaskier to grab it without getting out of the water. Water that, now that Geralt is close enough to feel it, it's cold. “What the fuck, Jaskier.” with a quick sign, Geralt warms it up, and Jaskier sighs. “What were you thinking? Why didn't you warm it up before entering in?”

“I... didn't know how.” Jaskier closes his eyes, and lowers himself more into the hot water, mumbling something incomprehensible. “This is better, though. That thing you've just done is useful.”

Fucking hell. Jaskier has a self–destructive streak.

“Next time, warm it up. You will have time to take a cold bath when you'll do it in a fucking river.”

“ _Mhh_ , alright.” Jaskier nods, eyes still closed. The goosebumps have disappeared from his skin. “Could you make me a favour? Would do take the soap from my bag? I don't want to wet it.”

Geralt grunts in response, but does as requested. He opens the bag, and inside there is... nothing. No food – even though crumbs lay at the bottom of it –, no drinks, no clothes, no useful object. No weapons. Just three vials of different oils, a bar of soap, and literally five coins – not enough to buy not even a piece of stale bread in a marketplace. How the fuck did he travel like this? “Which one do you want?”

“ _Mhh_... I don't remember what I have?”

“Lavender.” Geralt says, after inhaling the soap. “Butterscotch, chamomile, and jasmine are the oils.” he adds, after opening all three vials.

“The soap is fine.” he smiles, when Geralt hands him the bar of soap. He starts to clean himself with slow, careful movements. “You can take the jasmine oil, if you'd like. It's good for hair. And the chamomile one is a perfect lenitive for muscles.”

“And the butterscotch one?”

“It's just... I just like butterscotch.” Jaskier smiles, finally opening his eyes. “You can have that too, if you want.”

Geralt frowns. He doesn't like the way Jaskier is getting rid of his things. If he brought them with him from his home, or bought them instead of food, they must be important to him. “Hm, no. I don't need them.”

“Believe me, you do. The jasmine one, at least.” Jaskier says, pointing at his own hair, but implying that it's _Geralt's_ hair that needs more care.

Jaskier washes himself silently, Geralt on his knees next to him, half meditating, half trying to understand how Jaskier is feeling. He seems to be better, if nothing else. He's not happy, his scent is far from happy at the moment – but now the lavender soap is covering most of the acrid scent of his fear.

Geralt knows that isn't him Jaskier's afraid of, but he can't help but feel self–conscious. He's so used to people being scared of him, after all.

After whole minutes of deafening silence – Gods, ghost Jaskier never stayed silent for more than a _minute_ – Jaskier sighs, letting go of the soap, that floats on the now lukewarm water. “Geralt, I... I don't have money to pay you.”

Geralt frowns, “Pay me?”

“For helping me. You did your job, but I have no money with me. I am sure I have nothing much left inside my bag, right?”

“Jaskier, I don't want your money.” _I didn't help you_ , he wants to add, but for some reasons he doesn't.

“Nonsense. I won't be one of the dickheads lot that take advantage of your good heart.” Jaskier says, indignantly. Then, he starts to fidget with a longer strand of his hair stuck on his neck, a clear gesture of nervousness. “So, I... I ask you to accompany me home, in Lettenhove. There, I will find enough money to pay you.”

Geralt tightens his lips, “Jaskier–”

“I have to go there regardless of your payment. I won't mind the company.”

He doesn't want to be alone, thinks Geralt. He doesn't want to be alone on the way home – and probably, not even once they _reach_ his home. Usually, Geralt is a type of man that can get pretty easily a human's intention – it's helpful for his job, after all – and this time is not different. He's starting to understand where the problem in Jaskier's mind takes a form.

“Sure.” Geralt says, then, and for the first time since he woke up, Jaskier's eyes twinkle of happiness, and relief. “I don't mind keeping you company.” he adds, just to keep watching the happiness shining on his face.

“Oh.” Jaskier murmurs. A slight blush – too slight, it could have slipped his eyes if Geralt wasn't a very good observer – colours his cheeks, already warmed up by the bath.

Jaskier brings both his hands behind his neck and lays his head against his kneecaps, breathing softly.

“Hello, dear girl. Do you recognize me? I am the ghost that has bothered you for so long. Yeah, yeah, now that you can see me it's better, uh? Don't bite, lady, I don't taste very good.”

Roach doesn't bite Jaskier, when she sees him for the first time. Usually, Roach never lets stranger get too near her, but probably she really remembers the boy, somehow. Clever girl.

“Here,” Geralt says, handing Jaskier two sugar cubes. He doesn't give Roach a lot of them, and he really has this type of treats just when things are dire, and Roach has being scared by some monsters.

This seems to be also a good moment to give her one, or two.

Jaskier blinks, but accepts the cubes without hesitation. “Uh?”

“The treats you promised her. She holds grudges.”

“Oh. Right, yes.” Jaskier smiles, softly, getting closer to Roach and offering her the treats. She still doesn't bite him, she just munches the cubes, neighing under her breath, and licks Jaskier's palm, who giggles because it probably tickles.

Roach even lets him pat her neck, without snorting even once.

Geralt, looking at the happiness written in Jaskier's face, thinks that Roach definitely deserves more treats. So he gives Jaskier another sugar cube, and enjoys his quiet laugh.

Jaskier doesn't sleep the first night he gets his body back. Nor he even sings. He just plucks distractedly the meat Geralt has cooked for them, but not much of it gets eaten. He talks rarely – most of the time, it's forced.

Geralt doesn't push, because he doesn't know if pushing him is going to be better, or worse.

There is only one bedroll, and one of the few words he speaks, are to say that he's sorry to bother him: for the food, for the water, for letting him ride Roach, for letting him sleep beside him.

Geralt almost wants to snap, because it's so out of character. His ghost would have been happy to bother him, actually, and Geralt had actually fun bickering with him all day long, even if he tried so hard to hide that.

Now, now Jaskier seems... the ghost of his ghost self, as absurd as it sounds.

Still, Geralt doesn't lash out. He tells him that he's no bother, that all is fine, that he doesn't mind walking alongside him on Roach, he doesn't mind sharing his food, nor his bedroll.

They lay together on the ground, and Geralt hasn't enough fur to cover Jaskier from the cold of the humid night, so he asks for his permission to keep him warm. Jaskier nods, and Geralt all he reads on his face is trust, and his chest clenches at that sight. Almost feverishly, with his arms around Jaskier's slim hips and with Jaskier's back flushed against his, Geralt thinks that he doesn't want to bring him to Lettenhove, leave him there and never see him ever again.

He misses terribly Jaskier's voice while singing a ridiculous lullaby to him.

At first, Geralt doesn't know what to do as Jaskier, quietly, starts to cry.

“Tell me what to do,” Geralt asks him, then. “Tell me how to make you feel better.”

“Silly Witcher.” sniffs Jaskier. “You are already doing much more than anyone has ever done for me.”

Geralt can't stay silent for long.

That is a curious thing, because he has never felt the need to talk much before. It's true that he's been alone for a very long time – way before he killed the small good reputation he had in Blaviken – but he never, in his long life, felt like this. As if he wants to explode, to shout – but at the same time he doesn't want to, never wants to destroy the little steps Jaskier is making.

But after a week where all he has as a company is silence during the day, and tears during the night, Geralt has enough. Jaskier doesn't rest when they lay together on his bedroll in the middle of the woods, and falls in a pitiful, restless sleep while he rides Roach – so much that they now have slowed their pace down: the horse has to take both of them on her, because Jaskier is always in no condition to ride without falling off her saddle. Jaskier is sorry for yet another trouble he has brought upon Geralt – and that seems to make him less and less better.

So, that's why Geralt has enough – and tries to actually _do_ something, other than just leave him be.

They reach an unnamed town, and for the first time they stop at an inn to pass the night. Geralt orders foods and drinks up in their shared room, then follows Jaskier upstairs. Jaskier immediately goes into the bed, covering himself with the furs, not even minding to check about fleas in the mattress or much else.

Fuck. Geralt knows, at this point, that Jaskier won't sleep, and won't eat. But he has to try, distract him with something, and maybe raising his mood up enough to force him to at least get a mouthful of the soup.

“Jaskier,” he says his name, and Jaskier peaks up from the covers, “I, hm.” he clears his throat, “I miss your lullabies.”

Jaskier blinks, “What?”

“I slept better when you sang to me.”

“Oh.” Jaskier smiles. And Gods, he missed that smile – even the one that doesn't fully reach his eyes. “Really? I knew they helped you, regardless of what you always said.”

“They did.” Geralt nods, “And I miss them. Sing to me, tonight?”

Finally, _finally_ , a tiny light shines inside his blue eyes. They are so beautiful even now, with black circles around them caused by the lack of sleep. “I'd like to!” he says, almost eagerly, but then, in the same way the light was born, so it dies. “But I'm not really... in the mood.”

“Of course, I don't want to force you.” Geralt says, calmly, even if he wants to scream.

Jaskier says, suddenly, “I have a lute, back at home. It's broken, actually... my father broke it almost in pieces not long ago.” he blinks, but he doesn't burst into tears. “I saved it, somehow, before my father put it on fire, and hid it under my bed. Maybe... maybe it can still play, if it's something not too complicated as a lullaby. My songs were actually better when accompanied by my lute.”

Geralt grins at him.

“If you want, I can play something for you, when we will... reach home.”

“I would really like to.”

Geralt hands him his soup, after the innkeeper's daughter has brought dinner in their room. Jaskier accepts the bowl in silence, and he actually eats half of it without much thought – Geralt tries to let him talk, to let him think at anything but whatever is staining black his mind, and for a while he seems to be succeeded.

“I missed ale.” murmurs Jaskier, drinking the beer in his mug and grimacing for the taste.

Geralt hums, “It tastes almost good. Still a bit like piss, though.”

Jaskier smiles, then puts the mug on the nightstand, being almost careful to not let it make too much noise. After that, he crawls towards Geralt and raises one, trembling hand. “Can I touch you?” he asks, with a soft voice. His heart is beating like a drum in his chest, and he smells a bit scared, a bit excited, under his lavender perfume. His face is a bit flushed.

Geralt nods, because this is the first time Jaskier is taking action in something, and he thinks that it's a progress.

Jaskier's hand creeps slowly on his chest, caressing it until it stops at the side of his neck. Geralt feels like shivering at the gesture, but he controls himself. “I was thinking that, maybe, considering that I don't feel like singing...” the word _anymore_ is left unsaid, but Geralt hears it nonetheless, “I can help you relax in some other way. If... if you want.”

Pleasure coils at the bottom of his stomach, warm and tender. Jaskier's face is open, earnest – but his eyes hide insecurity, and a strange fear that clashes hard with that kind of proposal. “You're not– you don't have to do anything to make me relax, Jaskier.”

“Right. I don't have to. But... if I _want_ to?”

Geralt narrows his eyes, and Jaskier supports his stare without wavering. “You are not forcing yourself?”

Jaskier blinks, “N–no, no! Gods, Geralt, I would never think of you like one of those scums that takes advantage of– I– _shit_. Sorry. I didn't want to make you uncomfortable.”

“You didn't. I just don't what to force you.”

“Gods, Geralt.” Jaskier lays his forehead against his shoulder, and it's a so sweet demonstration of trust, and that he no, he's not lying – he's not feeling forced, he's not scared of him. “I know you don't want that, you wonderful man. Actually, that's why I'm proposing in the first place.”

“Why you reek of fear, then?”

“Darling, not because of you. Maybe the possibility that you could reject me put me a bit on edge. But I'm not scared of you.” He whispers, quietly: “Not of you.”

“Hm, good. Will it help you, too?” Geralt grumbles, then, touching the black under Jaskier's eyes.

This time, when Jaskier smiles, Geralt can also see a bit of his teeth, “ _I_ proposed, after all.”

Geralt puts an arm around Jaskier waist, and helps him getting on his lap. Jaskier is smiling, while cradling Geralt's face in his palms, and now his heart is beating strong, powerful, it does not stutter in fear anymore.

Geralt peels Jaskier's colorful clothes off with a care he never had for anything, nor anyone before. And Jaskier doing the same feels strange and good at the same time: he's not used in being treated with so much tenderness. Seeing the same reactions he's having on Jaskier's face, though, is wrong – so much that Geralt really wants to beat the shit out of whoever made him feel so unwanted.

Jaskier's face scrunches in pleasure is a sight that Geralt won't forget easily.

They don't fuck, because that's not what Jaskier needs right now. They touch each other, kiss every scars and every dimples. They just put their bodies to rest.

Jaskier, that night, sleeps like the dead. Pun intended.

Next time they stop at a tavern, Jaskier's skin has stopped showing that paleness caused by his... mind condition. He started to sleep much more – and feeling a wave of pride towards himself, Geralt thinks that it's all thanks to _him_ – and the black under his eyes dimmed day after day, until it disappeared completely. He started to eat more, and drink more than half waterskin a day.

Finally, Jaskier seems so _healthy_. He's not completely back to his cheerful self, but he laughs more, he sometimes makes jokes – he winks, making ridiculous puns about ghosts and deaths, and chuckles hugging Roach's neck.

He still doesn't sing, though.

That's why, when a stranger – a thief, and a cheater, because Geralt saw him play with other patrons before coming closer to the table where he and Jaskier are eating – offers him a Gwent game, Geralt accepts.

“How much you bet?” asks the man. He has with him the things he has stolen, showing them as battle prizes. Geralt doesn't care: he just eyes something in particular.

Geralt says, then, “No money.”

Jaskier looks at him curiously, seated right next to him.

The man shakes his head. “I don't play without something at stake.”

“I meant that I want no money. I want that lute.”

Jaskier inhales sharply, and he grips his forearm so hard that Geralt almost feels his nails through the thick fabric of his armor.

“ _Ohh_ , the lute.” the man in front of him frowns, probably not understanding why a Witcher would want a lute. Not that it's his fucking business, that is. “Sure. But this is a high quality lute, y'know? I won it in a game with an Elf. That means it's an Elven lute. Worth a lot.”

Jaskier is eyeing the lute carefully, and between the two of them, it's him the expert, so he's trying to understand from his expression if it really is worth much or not. From the wanting in Jaskier's eyes, whatever, Geralt thinks that it doesn't really matter: it's worth everything if only it makes him feel good, and happy. If it helps him sing again.

“It's fine. Is one of my sword enough for that Elven lute?”

Jaskier whimpers, “What? Are you _insane_ , Geralt?”

“Hush. I know what I'm doing.”

“It doesn't really seem the case!”

“The Witcher's sword. The silver one.” interjects the man, grinning at Geralt. “And we have a deal.”

They start to play, and Jaskier, next to him, hides his face behind both his hands, murmuring that he doesn't want to see the stupidest thing he has probably ever done in his entire witchery life. Geralt's lips tug upwards, but he tries to not let it slip the smile for the man to see: he doesn't want him to back off, understanding that he has lost even before putting down the first card.

What the man – and Jaskier, it seems – is ignoring is that Geralt can see when the man is cheating. He can clearly see the movement the man does to let another card slip off his shirtsleeve, and he can clearly see what type of card that is. Knowing it beforehand, it gives him an advantage.

And of course, Geralt can cheat, too. No one would see it, decades of stealthily gestures and actions for hunts are useful even for the simplest thing as a card game – maybe only Jaskier can get a glimpse of it, being so close to him, but surely he wouldn't call for an uneven game. He isn't even looking, still swearing under his breath.

Geralt wins, obviously. The man doesn't believe it, and neither does Jaskier. He takes the lute instead of Geralt, and cradles the instrument against his chest, as a mother does with her newborn child, and stays there, without muttering a word.

After he waves the pitiful thief away, Geralt turns to look at him. His blue eyes, shining bright with disbelief and happiness, are staring lovingly at the lute.

“Like what you're watching?”

“She is a bit sexy, isn't she?” Jaskier sighs, caresses the wooden body of the instrument with the tips on his fingers, as if scared to break it. He plucks, softly, at one chord, and the note echoes in the chaos of the tavern around them, unheard by anyone but them. “I mean, I know that it's technically yours, but I also know that you didn't specially request the lute to have it yourself.”

“I have no use for a lute.”

“Your muscles can break her in two even with the smallest of touches. And I know you can be quite soft with your hands,” Jaskier winks, a light blush coloring his cheeks. “But... _why_ you...?”

Geralt shrugs, “Yours is broken.”

“It is.” Jaskier wets his lips, still touching reverently the lute in his arms. What peaks in his scent is melancholy, but there is no trace of sadness and despair. Geralt considers this a victory. “Well, this means that I can... I can sing you to sleep, if you still feel like it.”

Geralt's lips twitch. “I do.”

“Great.” Jaskier nods, “I am probably a bit rusty, it's been so long since the last time I played. And apart from university, no one really ever stayed with me and heard me playing. It won't be a performance deign of a court, but...”

“You won't play in a court, Jaskier. You will play for me.”

“Good, yeah, I know.” Jaskier sniffs, but no, he's not crying. “I will. Even if you are the biggest moron I've ever met! What is wrong with you? I very much appreciate the gesture and I'll be forever grateful, don't get me wrong, but you put your sword, _your sword_!, at stake! What if you lost? How would you have continued to do your fucking job?”

“I won. I like play Gwent.”

“Yes, I gathered that, but still, that was a very stupid move.” Jaskier's eyes are soft, when he raises his gaze to look at him, “And very sweet. Thank you, darling.”

Jaskier's eyes smile, while plucking another chord.

Geralt is scared of finding scars on Jaskier's body.

He checks for them when they lie on the bedroll together, while he worships as many skin as he can reach. And even now, while they are enjoying their afterglow, under the starry sky and with Roach snoring softly somewhere in the clearing, Geralt brings Jaskier's wrist in front of his eyes, lets his eyes roam, and kisses the thin skin, savouring the salty taste and feeling his crazy heartbeat against his lips.

Jaskier sighs, with his head on Geralt's chest. “You won't find any scar, Geralt.”

Geralt winces, but doesn't stop kissing his wrist, “Hm?”

“I... I am a coward. I don't like physical pain. I actually run away from it all my life. That's why I was searching for a way to... do _it_... without feeling anything.”

Jaskier is opening up for him. This is the first time he's talking about his– his _death_ , even if thankfully he didn't really die, and Geralt now is suddenly scared of saying the wrong thing, causing Jaskier to close up again. Talking about it helps, he knows that – it's self–destructive taking all of his pain inside, for a human. And he's so young, it's not fair to be also so hurt.

“You are not a coward.” Geralt says then, lowering his wrist just to cock his head to the side, and kiss his forehead instead. “That was an excuse. You didn't want to die.”

“I did.”

“You didn't. You are too strong to give up, and kill yourself.”

Geralt is so grateful to Triss, actually. Regardless of what he thought when she brought them to Jaskier's sleeping body, she has done the right thing. Who knows what could have happened if Jaskier had actually met someone else: someone that could have granted his wish to die.

Geralt would never have met his ghost, never have helped him find his body. He would never have met this boy in his arms.

Jaskier stumbles to get up, putting his hands against Geralt's naked chest for a support. He has a grimace on, and his eyes are wet. Dread falls down Geralt's stomach – _fuck_ , did he say something wrong?

“Darling,” Jaskier's fingers clench, anxiety pouring out of him, “I can't promise you that I won't try again.”

Geralt jolts, sitting up and gripping with one hand both his wrists, as if he wants to stop Jaskier to do something irreparable right this instant. He has the urge to take Jaskier away, now, hide him somewhere and make sure that he's content and happy, and that he will never, ever again think of ending his life.

“You're right, I... I _don't_ want to die. I'm so scared of being alone, and what's waiting for me after I close my eyes for the last time? What if I'll be alone for the eternity, then, because I can't have more in death than I had in life? I'm _terrorized_ , but... Gods, Geralt... when you will go away, and leave me there in that... in that damned _place_ ,” he spits the word like a curse, and he probably really feels like it is. “I can't promise you that I won't try again, because everything will be better than that.”

Geralt panics, wiping away the tears streaming down his face uncontrollably, and tries to calm him, to give him comfort, console him, _anything_ , “Jask–”

“They will burn the lute you won for me. They will spit at me, telling me how much of a disgrace I am. They will close me in that hateful room, completely alone, for day, for week, for _months_ , just to punish me. They will sold me somewhere just to get rid of me, because I am a problem for them and they don't want me anymore, and I will be alone, alone, _alone_ , so _alone_ ,”

Fuck, Geralt wants to kill _them –_ Jaskier's parents, he guesses – with his bare hands. But threats are not what Jaskier needs right now.

“Shh, Jaskier, it's okay.” Geralt really hopes that his voice is less gruff than usual. He takes Jaskier in his arms, and when Jaskier starts to hyperventilating, Geralt lets him burrow his head into his neck and says: “Follow my breath, Jaskier. Come on, do it. Slowly.”

“And I didn't want to die at first,” Jaskier continues, when he's able to talk again, “I tried to run away from _there_ , hoping that I would find my way into this world. But I had nothing with me, I had no one to rely on, nothing I could do to survive. I was still so alone, and I couldn't do it anymore. I just wanted someone to be with me, to _love_ me...”

“Why the fuck didn't you say this sooner. The fuck I bring you there.” Geralt growls.

“I have nowhere else to go... And I wanted to stay with you, even just for a bit. I never felt alone with you...”

Geralt pursues his lips, tightening his arms around the fragile, precious human. “Life on the Path, you've seen how it is. Countless nights sleeping on the ground, and when you're lucky to rent a room, the bed is usually broken and infested with fleas. Most of the time food is lacking, and meat will always be unseasoned, no matter if it's a rabbit or venison. It's dangerous, you always have to be on guard. When you travel with a Witcher, a lot of people start to hate you.”

Jaskier stops crying, and raises from his neck – that now is covered in tears and snot, but Geralt doesn't really care. “What are you saying?” he whispers. The acrid scent of despair is completely disappeared under the total confusion he's feeling.

“You won't go back to Lettenhove. So you'll stay with me.”

Jaskier passes the back of his hand under his nose, wiping away, with a grimace, all the snot, “I don't want your pity. I don't want to be a weight upon your shoulder until you will have enough and... and...”

“I was alone too, Jaskier, before you came to me. I didn't really mind, loneliness, I was used to it. But I'm not anymore.”

Jaskier smiles, a bit trembling. “Sorry.”

Geralt says, “You ruined me.” he feels his lips tug upwards, “And maybe you are right, Jaskier: if I was with you, you wouldn't have died. And if you stay with me, you won't.”

“Or I will die sooner.” Jaskier doesn't cry anymore, but his eyes are still a bit wet. It'll take time to make him feel better again, and Geralt wants to be there for him even if he has to do the process time and time again. Who else, after all? “But a least I won't die alone.”

“Hm.”

Still with his arms around Jaskier, Geralt lays again on the bedroll, taking Jaskier down with him. “Oh, and... and I have a lute, thanks to you,” Jaskier sniffs, burrowing his face in the crook of Geralt's neck again. “I won't be a weight. I'll play in taverns, gain money. Praise your heroics, raise your reputation so people will start treating you with the respect you deserve, as a forever thank you, to repay you all you've done – and still doing – for me. I always wanted to be a travelling bard.”

“Time has come.” Geralt mumbles.

“Right.” Geralt feels Jaskier's smile against his skin. “My time has finally come.”

**Author's Note:**

> say hi to me at my tumblr! [@gerclt](https://gerclt.tumblr.com/)  
> 


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